ab ovo
by Enfleurage
Summary: Marella disappeared after 2nd season episode Short Walk to Freedom So where did she go? Scenes from a Courtship – Archangel, Marella.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I know I have not yet posted the last two chapters of "Achilles Heel." _This_ story demanded to be written and now that it's done, I will finish "Achilles Heel." Apologies to those who have been waiting for it.

**ab ovo** \ab-OH-voh\, _adverb_: From the beginning.

* * *

"When I invited you to lunch, I had intended a more…" Michael paused, reconsidered what he'd been about to say.

"A more suitable location?" Marella supplied.

"I appreciate dining al fresco as much as anyone," Michael replied, waving one hand to encompass the warm sun, the brilliant blue sky, and the smoke gray fumes from the traffic stacked up on Constitution Avenue. "I had, however, thought we would be sitting down at a table, with wait staff," he concluded, eye twinkling. "Not that these hot dogs are anything but what you promised."

"Best in D.C.," she said, taking a bite into the hot dog he'd bought her from the street vendor on the corner.

One dog, with everything, she'd said, and so she'd received. Never one to back down from an obvious dare, he'd ordered the same, but now, leaning back against a corner of the Hart Senate Office Building, Michael looked a little more doubtfully at his hot dog, obviously wary of dripping mustard, relish, sauerkraut and hot sauce on his pristine white suit. Marella pushed a few of the napkins she'd grabbed from the street vendors cart into his free hand and he nodded a dubious thank you, choosing to lean forward, over the sidewalk before talking a bite. A wise decision, she thought, as bits of relish and sauerkraut tumbled to the pavement.

It was good to see him. With her schedule she hardly had time to miss anyone from California, family included, but she suddenly found herself feeling unusually homesick for the first time since she moved to the East Coast.

It was a beautiful spring day in the nation's capital, that perfect and all too short time of year in between the damp cold winter and humid summer. Marella spent so much time indoors -- in the lab, in her office or in meetings - that she'd jumped at an excuse to get outside, to get fresh air or what passed for fresh air in this densely congested section of DC where vehicles clogged the streets and pedestrians hurried by, either frantically busy and important or at least wanting to impart that perception.

"What brings you to DC?" she asked, after sorting through a number of safe opening inquiries that didn't venture into areas she knew would be off limits. She'd kept her TS and SCI level clearances, her new position required it as much as her old, but most of Archangel's ops were need-to-know and she no longer had that need.

Mouth full of hotdog and toppings, he jerked his chin at the building behind them and then towards the Capitol building across the street. As he turned his head back to give her a shrug, Marella spotted mustard at the side of his mouth threatening to drip onto his suit jacket. Without stopping to think, she leaned forward and wiped it away with a napkin. It wasn't until the same corner of Michael's mouth tipped up in a small smile that she realized that her actions might be construed as something other than instinct. Archangel's staff took liberties with their boss, adjusting his ties, brushing lint off his suits, even biting the end off his occasional cigar before lighting it for him, all tiny invasions of his personal space that he either encouraged, ignored, or was completely indifferent, depending upon which staffer's analysis one believed. That Michael Coldsmith-Briggs was possibly biggest flirt Marella had ever met left her convinced that he encouraged it. The habit was ingrained, even if her position had changed.

Gaze still on her, Michael swallowed his mouthful. "Thank you," he said, the same small smile in place as he wiped his mustache with a different napkin.

Marella almost apologized. Instead, she met his smile and raised it a notch.

"How is the internment going?" he asked, mischief written all over his face.

Definitely the biggest flirt she'd ever met. Fortunately she had years of experience in playing at words with Archangel.

"Intern_ship_," she said, looking up at him through lowered brows. "And it's still a little overwhelming, there's so much to learn."

She missed the height advantage her heels had given her. She hadn't missed the once-over Archangel had given her when they'd met. She'd considered wearing white, as a lark and because her wardrobe had a considerable amount of choices in that color, but settled for gray silk blouse tucked into pale blue trousers and low-heeled pumps. Attending the morning's seminar at GW wearing head to toe white would have the older doctors jumping to assumptions that she was a nurse.

"Locked up in an institution, working eighteen hours a day or more, severing all ties with family and friends and ceasing all social activities?" Michael laughed. "I stand by my description."

"I made time for lunch," she argued, knowing in advance that taking fifteen minutes out of one's day to meet her former boss and devour a street vendor provided lunch before he raced on to his next meeting and she headed back to her lab only strengthened his argument. Pursing her lips, she reached for a sure win. "Working eighteen hours a day without time for friends, family or social activities? That sounds very familiar actually."

Studying the stump that remained of his hot dog, Michael just shook his head. "I apparently have a different recollection of our dining choices than you do. Travel, adventure, fine dining, excellent wine." He tossed the remainder of the hot dog in the metal trash bin on the corner, just missing a passing bike messenger who flipped him the finger but kept moving.

"It sounds like you're recruiting, sir," she replied, pleased that she provoked an immediate wince.

"You no longer work for me, Marella. You might want to consider using my given name."

She had, in her head, for some time. Out loud, in person, she hesitated.

"I'm still a Firm employee," she countered, lowering her voice. With the noise of the traffic, it would be difficult for someone to overhear but it was DC, and the playbook stated clearly to always assume you were being watched in DC. Or in this case, assume Archangel was being watched. "And you are still a Deputy Director."

"But you never used to be a coward. I see you've soaked up some of the environment here since you moved."

Provocative bastard, she thought, trying to stop herself from laughing.

"I let the devious Deputy Director of an unnamed agency buy me lunch, despite the consternation of my current boss that 'said devious individual' was doing so to pry details of our research out of me. Does that sound like a coward to you?"

Michael laughed again, wiped his mustache and then his hands with the remaining napkins. "God forbid, it sounds like a bureaucrat in training." He thumped his chest and grimaced. "Said devious individual is going to have indigestion for the rest of the day. If it were anyone but you, I might suspect it was done intentionally."

Only Archangel could wrap an insult, a complaint and a compliment together and have it sound charming.

He glanced at his watch and gave her a look of regret. "It pains me to eat and run, particularly," he glanced around at their surroundings with a wry smile, "as the company more than makes up for the cuisine, but I've a one o'clock with Senator Harney."

The sense of abandonment was immediate and completely out of proportion. She'd forgotten how much she enjoyed simple conversation with him.

"It's good to see you," she said, meaning it. "I'm glad you called."

The bright blue gaze held hers for a long charged moment, a time that passed slowly with increased awareness of every physical sensation as she waited for one of them to break the spell, but afraid to do so herself since she didn't know what the next step should be.

"I'm glad you could fit me in," he said, playful again, all intensity gone. "But next time, I pick the restaurant." A raised eyebrow asked for her agreement.

"All right," she said, although to what exactly she was agreeing, she wasn't entirely sure. A quivering sensation in her stomach reminded her of junior high school and first crushes, which seemed absurd in the current situation. She tried for confidence. "Next time, you choose, I'll buy."

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her left cheek. "That's not how it works, Marella," he said softly.

With a final smile, he turned and disappeared into the Hart Senate Office building, leaving her spellbound and speechless and entirely unsure if what she thought had just happened had actually happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two 

"Funeral or job interview?"

A blond brow arched over the top of his glasses. "Is it outside the realm of possibility that I simply preferred a change of attire?"

Stepping back, he gestured for her to precede him as the hostess led them to their table. She followed the woman, searching her memory for exactly how many times she'd seen Archangel wear something other than white. She'd counted only four occasions by the time they reached the table, including the incident when Airwolf pulled him out of East Germany. Archangel showing up for lunch in a charcoal blue suit and a dark red tie was not just an aberration, it was a statistical improbability.

The restaurant was quiet, understated, and impossibly elegant for a workday lunch; Michael's choices were somewhat predictable and so she'd dressed appropriately. As Marella sat, she was suddenly aware of Michael standing behind her, about to push in her chair. Perversely, she did it herself. He took his own seat without a word.

"So," she tried again, "funeral, job interview or incognito?"

Michael wasn't looking at her, his gaze was remote and at the question, he started. "Funeral. This morning."

She hadn't actually expected that. For a moment there, she'd convinced herself that he had deliberately dressed out of uniform, as if he had shed his Archangel identity to meet with her and in the brief few minutes she'd considered it, she liked the idea, liked the possibilities of the idea.

"I'm sorry." She leaned across the table, sincerely apologetic.

His lips thinned in a poor attempt at a smile. "Don't be. It wasn't mine."

Marella cringed and Michael reached across the table, briefly covering one of her hands with his. "I'm sorry, that was unconscionable. I'm usually not that much of an ass."

The waiter appeared; the timing was opportune, white wine for the lady, bourbon, on the rocks, for the gentleman. Marella considered ordering him a double. Surely she would have heard if it was one of his family members. She wasn't that far removed from the Firm or from his office. No, Meryl or Laura would have called her immediately. She was trying to think of a way of asking whose funeral he'd attended in a way that didn't pry or presume upon a relationship she didn't yet understand.

"I know I'm terrible company today," he said by way of apology, expression rueful, "but I was expecting a protestation that I'm not usually an ass at all."

"I was analyzing the differences between usually and occasionally," she answered with a twinkle, pleased to grab the line he'd tossed. "I am sorry for your loss."

Michael leaned back in his chair, bit his lip at he glanced at her. "I think you knew him actually. Max Ballard. Company guy."

Her eyes popped. "Max Ballard? What happened?" She'd assumed the funeral had been for one of the retired Firm officers or older members of the Committee. "He's so young."

"I'm glad you think so," Michael said with a wry smile.

Michael and Ballard were contemporaries, she remembered, and made a mental note to pay attention to what might be sensitivity to his age, or perhaps it was just sensitivity to the gap between his age and hers.

She began her question again. "What…?"

"Car accident," Michael said taking a grateful sip of the bourbon the waiter placed before him. "Drove into a tree at one in the morning. Probably fell asleep."

Marella could guess the details that he left out. Ballard had been working late, his job, all of their jobs demanded so much more than it was right to expect from a human being. This time he'd pushed himself too far and paid dearly.

"Family?"

"Divorced."

She wasn't surprised. Few people in their business managed to balance work and family with any real success. Compromises were made, and all too often the compromises ended up one-sided. She covered her mouth with one hand, reached out and grabbed Michael's hand with the other. He looked surprised and then let his hand relax into her grip.

"I'm glad you have a driver," she said simply.

Michael was watching her, not intently, not invasively, just a simple assessing gaze. He was reading her eyes, she realized after a moment, simultaneously embarrassed and curious, wondering what he saw, or at least what he thought he saw.

"You look wonderful," he said. "Tell me about your new job."

Marella returned his gaze warmly while automatically analyzing his statements for hidden meanings, trying to detect if his interest in her work was anything more than the interest of a friend and former colleague. No wonder people in their business had difficulty maintaining relationships.

"It's great," she said with a wide smile. "Rankin's brilliant." She looked around automatically, worried she might be overheard but few of her colleagues frequented restaurants like this one. "A little weird but brilliant and the work he's doing is fascinating. It's amazing to see the PET scan results of the tests we're conducting."

"What do you do each day?" An instant wry smile. "Not looking for state secrets, I was just wondering what interning with the great Rankin Bodley is like."

"A lot of it is still just learning everything I can about his theories and the compounds that he's testing. Understanding their molecular makeup and how each impacts different areas of the cerebral cortex."

He leaned forward, taking a sip of his drink and leaving his other hand under her grip. "A chance to put that degree in microbiology and the MD to work," he said softly, encouragingly.

"I've always been on the theoretical side in all the research I've done previously. It's an eye-opener to work in an applied environment," she admitted. "An entirely different world."

Fingering the cut crystal lowball glass, Michael smiled. "Making you work for it, are they?"

She nodded. The approbation that had come so easily as a multiple doctoral candidate, as a case officer and as a special assistant to Archangel seemed effortless in comparison to earning her stripes in the new job. Of course, at one point or another, she'd probably felt that way about everything she'd done. It always seemed easier in retrospect.

"I wish I had done a degree in chemistry or biochemistry. Microbiology is not a major part of our research."

"You learn at an amazing rate," Michael said. "I've never known anyone with a faster absorption rate or a more intuitive ability to apply new knowledge."

Marella flushed. The compliment was given as statement of fact. The very lack of any attempt to persuade her of its truth was indicative of the strength of his certainty.

"Thank you. It's good to see you, even if you're in town for a funeral. You look terrific," she said truthfully, wondering when the last time she had seen him this easily relaxed.

"I do?" Honest surprise. "I can't imagine why. Certainly not an exciting new job."

"You love the one you have," she answered confidently.

"I do," he admitted, grinning. "Despite the occasional SNAFU and the tedious maneuvering for budgetary dollars, I can't imagine doing anything else."

"I can." At his look of surprise, she clarified. "I can see you doing other jobs, but I think you'd get bored with them very quickly. And speaking of work, I hear rumors you've assembled an all blonde staff."

Michael opened his mouth to protest, clearly thought about it and half-smiled. "I suppose Amanda makes three, so there is some truth to it."

"Four," she said. At his skeptical look, she laughed. "You, Michael."

His fingers tightened on her hand and turned it over, sliding his thumb into her palm and rubbing slowly, rhythmically. "See. Now was that really so difficult to say?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three 

"Did you know that Mathilde Panomyaong and I are friends?"

Just drinks this time, inserted between a packed day of meetings for Michael and his two simultaneous and conflicting receptions that evening. For Marella, a brief break from the lab. It hardly seemed fair, as it had been almost five weeks since she'd seen him. More than enough time for voices of doubt to creep in, and be endlessly discussed with one's friends, and one's self on the nights where sleep just wouldn't come and the phone calls didn't seem nearly enough. Shoehorning in a thirty-minute get-together in a Silver Spring restaurant wouldn't nearly answer all of the questions she had. Fortunately, as it was a weekday night, the bar was nearly empty and they had privacy enough for a real conversation.

A blank look, puzzled gaze, and rapid blinking. Then, enlightenment. "Ah. _Orchid_." A brief smile. "Yes, I know you're friends. You met in Paris. How is she?"

Not the response she'd expected, though come to think of it, she hardly had known what to expect. Defensiveness? Denial? Evasiveness? Certainly not that smile growing larger by the minute.

He leaned over the small table between them. "She's your best friend, Marella. Of course, I know you're friends."

"Oh."

She absently tore a paper cocktail napkin into tiny shreds as she pursed her lips and thought, again, about how to ask him what she wanted to know.

Michael took a sip of his drink and studied her. "Go ahead and ask," he said, with a heavy sigh. "I'm surprised it never came up when we worked together."

"It didn't really matter then," she answered, with more honesty than she might have if she'd thought about her answer first, and if she wasn't on her second glass of wine. Judging from his expression, wary but a little smug, honesty was a good approach.

"So you two worked together in Prague…."

Michael nodded as if coaxing the words out of her. She leaned forward, willing him to fill in the blanks.

"Okay." Michael wet his lips. "Orchid was brought it to augment my cover. This was…" He exhaled heavily. "God, at least ten years ago, probably longer." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'd been in place eighteen months and things were getting a little hot. Her job was to pose as my lover and watch my back until we concluded the operation. We worked together three months."

Marella watched him, equally impressed and disconcerted that Michael could so calmly tell her that Mathilde had posed as his lover without his voice betraying anything, as if he had said Mathilde had posed as an artist or a banker.

"It was a job," he said seriously, watching her closely. "Field experience and training for an unseasoned but promising operative whose sole job was to make sure I didn't end up face down in the Vltava. She moved into my apartment in Prague. I probably should have given her the bed but rank has its privileges and I was just damn happy to sleep without one eye open for a change." He watched her steadily. "But you want to hear about London, don't you?"

Marella reached for her wine glass, hand shaking, and nodded. Her stomach was in turmoil.

He wrapped his fingers around his glass of bourbon, tightly. "The operation was successful. Orchid was a part of the success because her presence meant I could focus on the job at hand, knowing I had backup for a change. It was a joint operation with MI6. Debrief was in London. There was a gathering to celebrate the success."

Marella could see the vein in Michael's neck pulse. His face and voice might be completely under control, but he was just as nervous as she was and somehow that made her feel better.

Michael wet his lips again and took a breath. "As often happens with these occasions," he said, trying for a wry grin, too tense to really pull it off, "the celebration continued after the party ended. I walked her back to her hotel room and if I remember correctly, she invited me in." He locked eyes with Marella, holding her gaze. "I accepted her invitation, Marella, but nothing happened between us." He looked embarrassed. "I'd had far more gin than was wise."

Surprised, she said, "Gin makes you sick."

"Yes," he said wryly. "It does."

She frowned and studied her hands for a minute or two, before returning her attention to Michael.

"Why did you tell me all the details? Why didn't you just say that nothing happened?"

"Besides the fact that would have sounded defensive?" He considered her question. "Because I wanted to you know that I will always tell you the truth, all of it. If it's something I can't discuss -- and you know very well that there are many things I will not share with you and why -- I'll tell you that, but I'll never lie to you." He brought his head closer towards hers. "It was worth putting up with some embarrassment for you to know that."

If he was expecting weepy gratitude, Marella thought, he had the wrong woman, but Michael knew her better than that. Just as he knew she'd want to know everything.

She was chewing at her lip, knew she did that whenever she was nervous and therefore he'd recognize it for what it was. "When I worked for you, I'd just assumed that you and Mathilde…"

"I could see where you might think that of me," Michael said gently, "but why didn't you just ask her?"

Marella eyed him. "I did. A few weeks ago."

"Really?" He cocked his head. "And what did she say?"

"That it was strictly business in Prague, and that she all but threw herself at you in London," Marella said, playing with the stem of her wine glass. "She remembers waking up in her hotel room the next morning, fully clothed, with no idea how she got there."

"We were a pair, all right," Michael admitted.

"Michael," she said suddenly, eyes fixed on her wine glass, "would you, if you hadn't been sick and if she hadn't passed out…?"

He looked into the bottom of his glass, before sighing. "Do you really want to know the answer to that?"

No. Absolutely not. She didn't even really want to think about Michael and Mathilde together, wasn't sure why she'd asked. He'd voluntarily promised to never lie to her, to always tell her the truth, all of it, and she was already testing that promise. What kind of woman did that so early in their still 'not very clear where it was going' relationship? A stupid woman and Marella had never been and was never going to be a stupid woman.

"Of course I do," she said, still not meeting his gaze.

Two chilled fingers under her chin titled her head up and a clear blue gaze demanded she look at him.

"You want to know?"

Not taking her eyes from his, she nodded.

He swallowed. "The answer is yes. The job was over, we were both unattached, and Orchid is a beautiful woman who'd made it clear that she found me attractive. I'm not sure why you'd want to know that, what purpose it serves for you to know that and I'm afraid that you knowing what I might have done ten years ago will change things between us. But there it is."

"And you told me because you won't lie to me."

"No." He didn't look happy. "I told you because you asked."

Marella had no idea what to do with the knowledge she'd requested. There was a distance between them now and she'd put it there.

"You said earlier that it didn't really matter before," Michael said softly. "But it matters now."

Oh, it had mattered a little then too, but she hadn't had any legitimate reason then to feel a sense of proprietorship.

"Are we dating?" she asked, somewhat abruptly.

"Don't you know?" he said, eye widening in surprise. He stared at her for a moment, as if trying to fathom what she wanted him to say. "I guess you don't." He continued studying her, finally venturing carefully, "Do you want us to be dating?"

"I thought we were actually," Marella confessed. "I just wanted to make sure since we haven't actually said one way or the other."

"Then it's a yes," Michael said. "We are dating," she saw a small smile emerge, "as much as is possible considering we live on opposite sides of the country."

One smile sparked another and Marella allowed herself to let go of her questions and her fears.

"On a positive note, Mathilde _did_ say that you are an excellent kisser."

"She really wouldn't know," he said, deprecatingly. "I only kissed her to maintain cover. You'll have to tell her how I kiss someone I care for."

As he had said, weeks earlier, she had never been a coward.

"How do you feel about public displays of affection?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four 

"This isn't a rental car," Marella said, coming to a halt outside her apartment building.

The car in question, the one parked directly in front of her rented condominium apartment, was a blue coupe, sleek, shiny and European by its lines and not something that Hertz, Avis or any rental agency would have in their fleet. Of course, Michael was a little picky and she doubted he would have happily driven anything that was available in a rental car fleet. She followed him around the front of the car, hiding a smile as he opened the passenger door for her. She stepped in, and down, into a front passenger seat that felt like leather but was anything but luxurious. Despite the probable price tag of this car, it was built for driving, for speed, not comfort.

She leaned over and unlocked the driver's side door, just as Michael reached it.

"This looks fun to drive," she said, eyeing the five-speed transmission and wondering how Michael's bad knee would fare with the clutch.

"The ultimate driving machine," he agreed, turning his head to back out of the parking space. A quick grin. "I'm looking forward to getting it out of the city. Standard's a bitch in stop-and-go driving, but a lot more fun out on the open road."

Marella's fingers trailed over the pebbled grain of the dashboard, attention sliding down to the stereo system, impressed with the brand. The car was clean, empty of any clutter or distractions and made for driving, at a fast pace, with loud music.

"I should have brought some tapes," she said, but without any real regret. An entire day out together stretched ahead of them and while music would have been nice, it wasn't essential.

"I borrowed the car," Michael said, as he dropped it into neutral and coasted to a stop at the red light. At her askance look, he looked defensive. "I have friends, Marella. And family in this area. Check the glove compartment. Tom usually leaves some tapes in there."

She was fascinated, more by the reference to unknown family and friends, than the collection of cassettes from the 1960s and early '70s.

"Who's Tom?"

"My cousin. He lives in Bethesda and conveniently happens to be on vacation. He Fed-Ex'd me the keys."

"Nice guy," she said, in surprise.

"Considering that he and his wife drove my car up and down Route 101 for an entire week last summer, I'd say I'm the nicer guy."

And the white Mercedes two-seat convertible was just about the perfect car for a trip on the Pacific Coast Highway. Marella had always planned to drive it in a 1967 Mustang convertible if possible, but she wouldn't mind making the drive in Michael's car either.

She picked up a scrap of paper with Michael's handwriting, smiling as she translated the familiar scrawl. Beltway, 66, 29. She waved it at him. "Been a long time since you've been to Charlottesville?" she teased. "Haven't attended any co-ed parties lately?"

"I was thinking wine tasting at Oakencroft – they have a very nice claret -- but if you'd rather tour the campus…."

Blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of rarely worn sunglasses, but she knew from the set of his mouth that his teasing was good-natured. He was watching the road with a broad smile and occasional quick glances in her direction. She was watching him. The white polo shirt and khakis managed to bridge the gap between Archangel and just plain Michael and the idea that he'd shed his uniform and flown cross-country to spend the day with her was intoxicating.

"You really didn't schedule any meetings?"

"I really didn't schedule any meetings," he answered. "I really did fly to DC this weekend for the express purpose of spending time with you. I even flew commercial."

And had booked his own hotel room, making it clear that he came without expectations or presumption. Flying commercial didn't mean Archangel was completely off the Firm's radar screen – someone would know where he was and how to reach him in an emergency – but his actions had drawn a line for Zeus and the office: the trip was personal and off limits.

Even on a Saturday morning, Interstate 66 was busy, though not nearly the wall-to-wall assortment of barely moving vehicles that it often was during rush hours on weekdays when even the HOV lane averaged only 20 mph. There was enough traffic to keep Michael's eyes and attention on the road and his right hand on the gearshift.

As yet another idiot with a death wish drifted into their lane without signaling, Marella reached for the map, looking for an alternate route.

"We could take route 28 to 29, get off the interstate sooner."

"And miss Manassas?" Michael said, swearing under his breath and downshifting as the brake lights in the car in front of them suddenly lit, and just as suddenly went out. "Stop tensing up, I do drive California freeways on a regular basis. This is child's play in comparison."

"You are driven on the California freeways," she corrected gently. "By a professionally trained driver. And I didn't realize we were going to Manassas."

He'd suggested a day trip, mentioned that Charlottesville was one of his very favorite places, and that the drive to and from was beautiful. She hadn't pressed for details, hadn't wanted to jinx the trip with an unexpected emergency from either of their jobs.

"Oh, I wasn't planning on stopping, though it's worth a visit sometime if you've never been," he said. Sighing, his voice changed, roughened. "It's beautiful country, battlefield and graveyard and history all combined and the first battle there is so absolutely a précis of Washington politics that you think at least some of them would learn from it."

"I keep forgetting it was Engineering _and_ History. Dartmouth, right?"

"Undergraduate, yes, but you don't need a degree in history to know about the War Between the States if you spend even a few years growing up in the South," Michael replied, wryly. "It's in the blood and the water and it's every other word from every small town mayor or State Representative. Some towns can barely afford to keep the town hall in a reputable state, but every one of them has a monument in the center of town."

"And everyone's related to Robert E. Lee or Jeb Stuart," she said.

"Not everyone," he said with a laugh. "Not most actually but there are more than sufficient Southern heroes to go around. In fact, my mother's people claim kinship with Porter Alexander and Mary Boykin Chestnut."

"I'm guessing Mary Chestnut wasn't a general," Marella surmised, "and I have to confess I've never heard of the other one either."

"Edward Porter Alexander, Chief of Artillery for Longstreet's Corp, First Corp, under Lee," Michael rattled off easily. "Brilliant engineer, used signal flags and hot air balloons to gather and transmit key intelligence during battles early in the war. Made history as the first person to transmit messages by signal flag over long distance during battle. Helped turn the tide at First Manassas."

"Ah, I see why you might identify with the man," Marella said with a knowing smile. "So your family was on the Confederate side?"

"My mother's family," he clarified. "Well, some of my mother's family anyway. The Briggs were for the Union for the most part."

His attention shifted back to the road as they exited the Interstate and slowed to the less frantic pace of Route 29. Miles of small town Virginia, masses of green trees guarding houses and neighborhoods from the state road, giving way to the simple beauty of undeveloped countryside, trees and shrubs and nothing concrete or plastic for miles. That in turn gave way to civil war split rail fencing, its distinctive x-shaped posts every few feet supporting four or five horizontal wooden rails barely more than stripped tree branches, the fence zigging and zagging, never entirely straight. Mile after mile after mile of this fencing on each side of the road gave her a sense of the enormity of the battlefield.

"Tell me about Manassas," Marella said, moved by the solemn serenity, of nature retaking that which man had once ripped to bloody pieces.

"First Manassas?" Michael said, fingers rubbing groves in the steering wheel. "The first real battle of the war, neither side truly ready. If I recall correctly, President Lincoln ignored the advice of the Union Commander that they weren't ready and said something along the lines of 'you're all green together.'"

All green together under the grass and trees that covered the graves of hundreds, maybe thousands, of Union and Confederate soldiers.

"The Union Army was expected to whip the upstart Confederate whelps, and as Beauregard's Army had the temerity to camp just 25 miles from Washington DC, the Union Army came out to do just that. Since it was so close, the politicians and citizens of Washington came out in their carriages to picnic and watch the battle."

"You're joking." Marella looked at his face. "You're not joking," she said horrified.

Michael shrugged. "Think of the Colosseum, Marella. The public likes to experience violence vicariously, to watch at a safe distance. And as unbelievable as it sounds, I don't think they expected the battle to actually be war. Politicians don't like to think of what soldiers actually do. Neither does most of the citizenry."

"God," she exhaled.

"The Union could have won the battle. From what I recall, it was chaos on both sides. This is where Stonewall Jackson earned his nickname and his Virginia brigade held fast until reinforcements could be brought up." He smiled. "The need for reinforcements, by the way, was signaled by the afore mentioned Porter Alexander. The Union attack broke on Jackson's brigade, fell back, panic set in, the Union soldiers came running back through the picnickers, who panicked as well, and both groups clogged the sole road back to Washington. What today's Army would deem FUBAR, I imagine."

"No kidding."

"That's the Reader's Digest version of First Manassas. Second Manassas was a year later and a lot more vicious as both sides had learned the discipline of true warfare. Interestingly enough, from our perspective at least, key intelligence gathered in a cavalry raid was what gave Lee the advantage at that battle."

"Your perspective," Marella corrected carefully with a warm smile. "I don't do that anymore. Now I'm just a doctor studying the effect of certain compounds on the human brain."

She didn't miss Michael's brow rising, nor the sardonic twist to his lips. "Certain compounds designed to unlock secrets guarded in that brain, otherwise known as intelligence gathering through biochemistry. The Holy Grail of the Intelligence community."

So much for keeping Rankin Bodley's research a secret. She'd never even hinted to Michael the true goal of the compounds they were testing. She rapidly sorted through the facts at hand, trying to decide whether to acknowledge, admit, ignore or deny. Too long a hesitation was acknowledgement; she went with her instinct to deflect before the clock ticked too far.

"If you're trying to fish, you know better," she said with mock disapproval.

"Marella," Michael said with an indulgent sigh, "the Firm is underwriting Bodley's research." As her eyes widened in shock and dismay, she saw a smile play about his lips. "Not that Bodley actually knows that we are providing the funds, it's all false flag, but I know what you're researching. I have all along."

"You've never said," she said quietly.

They crossed under Interstate 66 again, near Gainesville, and reentered small town America with its gas stations, strip malls, fast food outlets and small businesses scattered along the road, giving way to houses and trees again in between each town.

"I wasn't at liberty to do so."

Why now? Why at all? Was it possible that the Firm, that Michael, had permitted her transfer, her loan to Bodley's team to protect their investment?

Michael reached out, his right hand blindly seeking her left and Marella threaded her fingers through his, amazed at how natural it seemed to take comfort from such a simple touch, from his touch.

"Technically," he said, drawing the word out between his teeth, "I'm not at liberty to tell you now either." He shot a glance in her direction, squeezed her fingers. "I won't ask you any details and you shouldn't tell me any. Maintain protocol, as you've been doing, as I know you would always do."

They passed out from under the shade of the trees lining the road, cresting the top of a hill, the fertile belly of Virginia displayed before them.

Michael sighed deeply. "Here it is," he said simply, with reverence.

Marella silently absorbed the view, the rolling hills, the farms, and the road falling away and rising only to fall and rise again and again, like a gentle roller coaster, as far as the eye could see. The hint of purple in the distance to the west was her first real glance at the Blue Ridge Mountains from something other than an airplane far overhead. In that glance, she understood Michael's love of this road, the sense of homecoming as they escaped the city, the interstate and the weight of modern life. The road signs directed them to names from an American History textbook – Culpeper, Rappahannock, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania – all dimly remembered from high school. The road's names, the Warrenton Turnpike, the Lee Highway, hinted at its past incarnations.

"Route 29 was named in honor of the 29th Infantry Division, which fought in World War I and II," Michael said, reclaiming his hand to shift gears. "It was composed of regiments from Virginia and Maryland that had fought on both sides of the War Between the States."

"Does everything come back to the Civil War?" she asked, amused.

"In Virginia," Michael drawled, deliberately emphasizing the small remaining traces of his southern accent, "history is a living thing. You'd do well to remember that, young lady."

A smile wrapped itself around her face. She'd spent seventy-five percent of her waking hours with this man during the past four years and thought she'd known him as well as she knew almost anyone in her life. As well as he allowed anyone to know him. But now, she felt as if her clearance had been bumped up to a level where she had to work to assimilate the information given her. This was his history, his home turf, and he'd gift wrapped it for her to share with him.

She rested her hand on top of his, the one wrapped around the gear knob; let it stay there.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five 

Marella came awake with a start, heart thumping in her chest, and a short huff of air expelled from her lungs.

The room was dark. She was in her bed. Nightmare, she realized, as pitch black faded to deep gray, familiar outlines of furniture unveiled themselves, and moonlight slipped through the window to glint in the mirror over her dresser. Home, her bedroom, her bed. She was safe. It was just a nightmare.

"What?"

Michael's voice, thick with sleep, but clearly awake. Neither of them was accustomed to sharing a bed, each woke intermittently throughout the night as the other shifted in sleep. It took time, Marella reminded herself, to adjust to sharing a bed with someone, time they didn't have. A weekend here and there followed by weeks alone was not going to break habit.

She reached for him, solid, warm weight under the palm of her hand, reassuring in his proximity. Michael shifted, reached out and pulled her over, and she rolled against his chest, wrapping an arm across it, holding fast.

"Bad dream?" he said into her hair, fingers rubbing a soothing pattern at the nape of her neck.

"Nightmare," she said, head resting on his chest, against the steady rise and fall of his breathing. "Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

"You okay?" He sounded drowsy, but his fingers kept up their work. "Want to tell me about it?"

"Not really." She couldn't recall ever waking from a bad dream and then returning to it when she slept again, but the immediacy of her nightmare chased logic away. Fear was more powerful an incentive than sleep. "It's nothing, I'm fine."

"All right," he said, skepticism creeping into his voice. "What time is it anyway?"

Marella had no idea and no intention of raising her head to find out. Michael's chest was not particularly comfortable to lie upon -- men's bodies rarely were, all hard bone and muscle, no softness about them --but there was a sense of reassurance and strength to be drawn from the warm skin under her cheek. She rested her hand over his heart, wondering if she could count heartbeats through touch alone.

"Go back to sleep, Michael."

He mumbled something, his breathing steadied and then slowed into a soft rhythm, fingers at the back of her head slipping down onto her neck and resting on her shoulder. At least one of them could sleep, she thought a little jealously. In the silence, she could hear a whirr as the refrigerator fan downstairs cycled on and off. A car drove behind the apartment buildings, heading towards the garages; someone's getting home late. She wondered idly if whomever it was had been out partying or worked an odd shift.

"Chocolate mousse cake or key lime pie?" Michael said suddenly, his voice clear and coherent and obviously not anywhere near asleep.

"What?" Marella lifted her head from his chest and glanced up at him. "Faker," she accused.

"I was listening to you not sleep," he said, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a smile "Chocolate mousse cake or key lime pie?"

They'd been playing the question game on and off throughout the day, presenting choices and options, sometimes outrageous, often silly, without actually acknowledging that they were swapping preferences, insights about each other.

"Chocolate mousse cake," Marella admitted, one hand sliding to her stomach, reassuring herself that it was firm, her waist still narrow. "You?" she studied him, her face drawn into a puzzled grimace intending to convey deep concentration. The other corner of his mouth tipped up into a full smile. "You're going to say key lime pie, aren't you?"

"I am," he said, sighing happily. "Whenever it's offered, which isn't all that often actually."

"Not pecan?" she demanded.

"I hate to burst your neat little stereotype, but I find it too sweet and far too rich for my digestive system." His right hand slid down to her waist. "Your turn."

Totally unfair. He had time to think up a question before springing it on her and they'd exhausted most of the more obvious ones throughout the day: favorite holiday, favorite color, favorite music, song, book, movie, season. Got it.

"White lights or colored?"

His grip on her waist tightened. "Excuse me?" he said, voice rising in pitch, not volume.

Marella burst out laughing. They'd both danced around the race card, never addressing it explicitly but she hadn't had that in mind when she asked.

"On the Christmas tree, silly," she said, turning her head and dropping a kiss on his unsuspecting lips. Michael turned his head into the kiss, lips meeting hers and then parting into a soft open-mouthed kiss, the type where she usually lost sense of time passing, of anything around her. Pulling away for breath, she whispered against his chin, "You're not distracting me. White lights or colored on the Christmas tree?"

She felt his chest rise as he sucked in a deep breath.

"What I grew up with or what I prefer?"

Nice deflection. "Both."

He laughed softly. "In the alternate universe where I have both the time and motivation to put up a Christmas tree, it would have white lights, of course. I'm shocked that you even had to ask. Growing up, it was those oversized blue, green and red lights when I was young -- you know the ones that got very hot and probably burned down more than a few houses -- changing to either all blue lights or all white lights when I was older." He buried his nose in her hair. "God, you smell wonderful."

"Yes, I do," she said, grinning broadly. "And you're stalling."

"No, I'm not. You smell wonderful and you grew up with multi-colored lights," Michael said smugly, "but if you put up a Christmas tree now, it would have white lights because it would be with me."

The aggravating thing, she decided in the midst of narrowing her eyes in his direction, was that he was absolutely right.

"In that alternate universe," she amended. "The one where either of us have the time and motivation, not to mention being in the same state long enough to buy and decorate a Christmas tree."

"Yes, that's the one," Michael said, with what sounded like regret. "And speaking of holidays…"

Marella frowned, felt the furrow form between her brows and instantly raised her brows, chasing away the chance of wrinkles. "We already did that one."

"Despite your acknowledged ability to read my mind, usually with great accuracy, I meant the holidays this year, as in, are you going to your parents' house for Thanksgiving and Christmas?"

"Oh." Marella idly traced the outline of his breastbone up and down. The scattering of chest hair was feather soft under her fingers. "With the internship, I'm not sure I'll have any time off this year, which is going to drive my mother absolutely crazy…"

"Since you're supposed to have a normal job now," Michael finished. "At least, she can say 'my daughter, the doctor' is too busy to come home, rather than invent excuses as she's had in the past."

"She's been a doctor's wife for forty years. My MD doesn't nearly carry the weight it does in other families," she said ruefully. "You?"

"Oh, my mother's making noises now, which is damn early if you ask me, about making sure I put in an appearance since despite all my travel to the East Coast this year," she could hear the smile in his voice, "I've not yet made it down to Charleston."

"So, you'll come to the East Coast for the holidays and I'll fly to Southern California, assuming I have any time off?"

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"Michael?"

"Hmmm."

Have you told your mother anything about me? Is it time to start planning holidays as if we are a couple? Maybe I should mention to my family that I'm seeing someone, but God, that'll open up a can of worms that I'm just not ready to answer.

"Your turn."


	6. Chapter 6

Marella was grateful for the turn, when it finally came, though turning left, to the East, was only a small improvement as the blinding glare of the sun now boomeranged off her rearview mirror instead of striking from her right. Less than a year living in Maryland and she'd forgotten the heat and glare of California sun. 

The road was dusty; her family had managed to insert the worry of drought into their infrequent telephone conversations over the past two months. Against the weeks without a decent rain, the bright green of the grassy field was surrealistic, fantastic, as if she had made a wrong turn into Disneyland by mistake, a vast, lush, Disneyland the size of nine football fields surrounded by white picket fencing. She drove the small compact rental car to the area where other cars had been left and turned off the engine, listening to it tick as it cooled, taking another air-conditioned breath before venturing out into the afternoon sun.

Impossible to believe that she'd risen that morning in her apartment near Silver Spring, showered while the coffee maker gurgled liquid wakeup, dressed as she half-listened to the television news, sipped coffee and promised herself that she'd eat a decent breakfast on the weekend. The routine she followed six days out of seven and far too often on the seventh day as well. It had still been dark when she arrived at work, early enough that she was surprised to find her boss already there, further surprised at his summons.

_Marella, you've stayed in contact with your old boss, haven't you?_

There were only four riders on the field -- a scrimmage, Laura had called it – two in dark colored shirts, the other two in white shirts, galloping and colliding with the exultant glee of schoolboys. The white shirted team of two was moving the ball downfield, heading away from Marella at a good clip. Sans helmets, the men's hair streamed in the breeze created by the pace of their horses. As one swung his mallet, a dark-shirted rider cut his horse in, checking the first player's mallet with a hook from his own. In the scramble for the ball, all four riders fought for position, literally tons of horseflesh adding weight to a fast moving shoving contest. Even across the broad field, the shouts of the various riders rose above the thunder of the hoofs striking earth, and the thinner clacking of mallets meeting mostly other mallets.

_Taken at gunpoint, drugged and interrogated, Rankin had said. The drugs applied intravenously for twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, possibly longer._

A dark-shirted rider broke away from the pack, heading back in Marella's direction. As the remaining three riders broke apart, Marella saw the white ball traveling upfield, towards the goal to her right, and the first dark shirted rider hotly pursued by a rider in a white shirt. A golden-haired, familiar looking man wore the white shirt, leaning into a beautiful chestnut, the horse's hoofs tucking under its belly as if never touching earth. She watched avidly as the two men contested possession of the ball, horses colliding, mallets seeking, probing as the riders fought for position.

_Refused the request to be interviewed by the research team, to answer questions about his first hand experience under what appears to be a highly effective interrogation drug._

The other pair of riders split, positioning themselves strategically to await the outcome of the battle between their teammates, who were evidencing little to recommend the sport as one of gentlemen based on the amount of shoving between them. Marella willed success to Michael, willed that his fierce competitiveness had not been damaged beyond repair by this latest ordeal. Elbows flew and Marella's breath caught as the white-shirted rider suddenly sagged to his left. She heard the thwack of the mallet even if she never saw the ball until it was moving back downfield toward the other white-shirted rider. The pursuit and resulting goal was almost anticlimactic.

Michael's triumphant smile lifted some of her worry and she watched him with open admiration as the riders cantered their horses in from the field. His need for riding and for polo increased proportionately to his aggravation index at work, and his staff knew where they could find him any free weekend. On horseback, he wasn't lame, no one could see him limp, and a pair of aviator sunglasses shielded more than his eye from the sun, but his love of riding and horses was deeper than his scars from Red Star.

Blond hair whipped by the wind, white teeth framed by an amused tilt of a mustache, a strong, well defined jaw. The long, lean body poured into a casual open necked polo shirt, close fitting jodhpurs and well-worn leather riding boots that encased muscled calves. Amused by her very physical response to the sight of the polo shirt clinging damply to Michael's chest, Marella forced herself to identify the specific hormones attempting to seize control of her brain and body.

"Marella!"

A range of emotions ran over his face, astonishment and open delight, followed by confusion and then understanding. By the time he'd dismounted, with easy grace and long habit, Michael looked surprisingly grateful to see her. Reins, mallet and crop in his right hand, he wrapped his arms around her as she slipped into his embrace, burying her face against his left collarbone, arms around his neck.

"This is a wonderful surprise," he said, pulling back just far enough to angle in for a kiss, a bruising, demanding, relieved kiss that left them both breathless.

Michael's fellow polo players passed by. "Not one of his usual beautiful women in white," one said, the others laughing.

Marella began to tremble; emotion that had been carefully boxed away beginning to escape its tight boundaries.

"Your boss sent you?" Michael said into her hair, holding her gently as the trembling became more obvious.

She nodded, gaze sliding to meet his, frustrated that it was still masked by the sunglasses. The rueful twist of his lips hinted at his state.

"You should have told me," she said, more hurt than angry. "Rankin told me first thing this morning. I caught the next flight to LAX." She ran the fingertips of her right hand across his cheekbone, let her fingers linger at his temple, smoothing away the lines and tension that seemed more evident than when she'd last seen him. "Rankin asked me to contact you, but that's not why I came."

Michael exhaled and nodded.

"I came because the idea of someone hurting you makes me want to fire nuclear-tipped Shrike missiles," Marella declared, a quivering lip detracting from the fury she wanted to convey.

Michael's thumb rubbed her bottom, wobbly lip, and through the grave set of his features, there was a hint of a small, wry smile.

"An expression of sentiment that owes more to Stringfellow Hawke than Shakespeare or Marlowe."

"_Come live with me and be my Love_

_And we will all the pleasures prove…"_

"You're dangerously close to treading on my lines," Michael warned with warm affection. "Marella... honey… I wanted to call you. I picked up the phone more times than I can count." His gaze dropped and he looked for all the world like a boy close to shuffling his feet in reluctant embarrassment. "If I called, you'd want to come, and even though I wanted you to come, I didn't want you to drop everything, or feel obligated to do so, especially since, as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."

Drugged and interrogated for more than twenty-four hours was not Marella's definition of perfectly fine but she was desperately moved by his near admission of need, of the convoluted reasoning attempting to put her before what he wanted. She focused on the only thing she could extract without criticizing his thought process.

"You wanted me to come?"

"I wanted you to come," he agreed in quiet voice. "I _needed_ you to come and I am immensely happy and grateful that you are here."

Marella kissed him softly, lingering on his lips, trying to convey with gentle pressure all of the emotions swirling in her heart and her brain, the most dominant of which was a fierce protectiveness, a willingness to do whatever necessary to keep this man from harm.

Pausing for breath, her hands fisted in Michael's hair and the fingers of his left hand possessively splayed over the most sensitive area of her lower back, just over the coccyx, she realized with a start that he still held the reins to his horse and that while the polo field was mostly empty, they were not alone.

"Come home with me," Michael breathed in her ear.

"Yes," Marella said smiling. She'd come with little luggage and no real plan other than to find Michael and fix what she could, soothe what she couldn't fix, and wrap herself around him until she decided it was safe to leave. It was impossible to plan when she knew next to nothing of what had happened. Rankin hadn't had many details and Archangel's office had refused to share any when she'd called after arriving in Los Angeles. Whatever had happened to Michael was classified, need to know, and Laura had reluctantly enforced protocol. "Your horse?"

"Twenty minutes," he promised, with a quick, parting kiss. "Five minutes to walk him, to cool him down, and then fifteen minutes to get him settled, clean, and comfortable in his stall."

It was twenty-five minutes later, but as Michael emerged from the barn smiling, Marella found herself smiling back, unable to be impatient in such lovely surroundings. She'd had time to soak up and absorb some of the California sunshine she'd taken for granted for most of her life, squirreling it away for the coming winter on the Eastern Seaboard where gray skies were far more daunting than the bitter cold.

* * *

"I can't give you a sample of the drugs they used," Michael said suddenly. "I don't have one to give." 

Surprised, Marella shifted position on the couch to watch his face, letting her own expression soften encouragingly. He needed to talk about it, needed to exorcise the experience and there were so few people he trusted, could trust with the truth. Each part of the story would be compartmentalized: in the debrief, he could present all of the facts; to the research scientists, he could provide details of the drugs' impact; but to talk about what it felt like…

"I had blood drawn, of course, but the half-life of the drug is very short and our people couldn't determine anything about it. Probably why Stoner used the IV to keep a constant rate in my system."

"Stoner," she mused. The name was unfamiliar.

"Patrick Stoner; an arms dealer, who with the help of Mikael Gurvovich, was determined to get his hands on a device I was fostering." Michael's gaze went distant, his expression rueful. "It's not clear whether the 'technique' used on me was Stoner's doing or Gurovich's, or both, but it wasn't just the drug. They combined it with constant sensory over stimulation." He'd gone very still, only the bobbing of his Adam's apple conveying distress. "Impossible to know what was real and what wasn't, almost constant hallucinations drawing on my own mind, my own memories to make them seem real."

She wanted to comfort him, it was painful not to reach out and tell him that he was all right, that it was over. It wasn't over, not until he could put it behind him, so she pressed her lips together tightly and waited, listening, giving him a space where he could let it go.

"I don't know what Stoner used on Professor Roberts. He needed all three of us – Roberts, Gurovich and me – to make the device function." His face darkened in a scowl. "Gurovich followed the money, his loyalty, his research for sale to the highest bidder, which wasn't that much of a surprise honestly, but Roberts wouldn't have handed over his research to Stoner. Not for money and not for free." He shook his head slowly. "I don't know how Stoner got what he wanted from Roberts. He killed them both, Roberts and Gurovich, after he had what he needed, so I guess I'll never know."

It had only been six months but it felt as if she'd been gone for years. Roberts, Gurovich, Stoner – Marella knew none of those names, could find no context to understand what had happened or why. The idea teased at the back of her mind; despite her refusal to acknowledge that there was any truth to it, it wouldn't go away. _This wouldn't have happened if she'd been here_. Of course, it would have, Stoner would still have gone after Archangel, but the little Marella had elicited from Laura had infuriated her: Dublin had activated Zebra Squad, had sent them to kill Michael. She would have stopped that.

They sat in silence, sprawled more than sat in the very bland but extremely comfortable sofa in Michael's living room. His decorating scheme owed more to time spent in four-star hotels than personal preference, excepting the color selection. Dressed in one of Michael's old sweaters and pajama bottoms that hung loosely on her frame, Marella blended perfectly into the white and off-white décor.

"I broke," Michael said, very quietly, starting at the floor. "I told Stoner what he wanted, what I swore to myself I'd never give him."

Marella blinked away tears. Biting hard on her lower lip, she was hard pressed not to reach for him; she held back reassurances that breaking under interrogation was nothing shameful, that he'd held out longer than most could. _D__rugs applied intravenously for twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, possibly longer_

"I'd like to think if the interrogation tactics had been physical, I wouldn't have broken," Michael said, his voice lacking conviction. "I wish I could say that I gave Stoner what he wanted during the worst of the hallucinations, because I couldn't tell what I was doing. Stoner was a clever little bastard, I'll give him that." He rubbed his right eye. "He stopped the treatment long enough for me to realize that my sanity was slipping, long enough for me to be more terrified of going back to the hallucinations than I was of Stoner having the device."

Fear, Marella understood. She'd been studying it for six months. It was the true tool of the professional interrogator. All other techniques were in service to getting the target to the point of believing that he or she couldn't endure what was threatened. Once the target passed the point of being afraid, or had given up, no amount of physical, chemical or psychological torture in the world would yield information.

"I choose to give him the information he needed…"

"Because the device in his hands was less frightening than you losing your mind," Marella countered softly.

Michael shook his head, expression full of regret. "I knew Stoner would kill me after he had what he needed, and _that_ was better than the hallucinations."

She pressed her fist to her mouth, horrified. Michael reached for her and she grabbed his hand, her grip far too tight for comfort.

"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I wasn't thinking of you when I made the decision. When Stoner's man came to kill me, I realized that this might hurt you."

'_Might hurt me_," she mouthed, incredulous.

"Someone would tell you – Laura probably -- but they wouldn't know that we were involved, they wouldn't know _how_ to tell you."

As if there was any good way to learn that your lover had been tortured and killed.

"Stoner's man came to kill you?" Marella said weakly, shaken beyond her ability to absorb the knowledge that Michael had come so close to dying, and that his final thoughts would have been worrying about how she learned of his death, how it would affect her.

"Hawke," Michael answered. "His timing…" He swallowed. "Had he been a few seconds later, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Hawke. She waited, surprised, when the normal surge of irritation she felt whenever Hawke's name was mentioned failed to appear. Hawke had saved Michael's life. The Firm had sent people to kill him and Hawke saved his life. Instead or irritation she felt a physical urgency and almost leapt from the couch, staggering and barely reaching the powder room before she brought up her dinner – the coq a vin, the baby asparagus, the excellent bottle of wine. She was violently ill, gagging and retching over the toilet long after her stomach had emptied itself. The tile floor was cool under her knees, and she rested her weight on palms pressed against the terra cotta as the shuddering gradually abated. She'd cried – she always cried when she was ill, a purely instinctive and physical reaction – and between the tears and the damp perspiration on her face, Marella felt the roots of her hair soak up the moisture; sweat-stained, it would frizz.

"Here," Michael said, kneeling next to her, handing her a glass full of cool water.

Gratefully, she sipped at it, rinsed the horrid taste from her mouth and spit it into the basin. Again. And again. Until there was no water left in the cup. Michael stood, refilled the glass and handed it to her as he dampened a washcloth. Kneeling again, he ran the cloth over her face so gently that she felt like a child, and like a child, she crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him in a way that would have been embarrassing if she had a shred of self-consciousness remaining.

"I love you," she said damply into his neck.

His arms tightened around her back. "I love you, too."

"This wasn't how I planned on telling you that," she said miserably.

"A romantic dinner, making love, maybe champagne," Michael said, fingers drawing a pattern on her back. "I know. I'd thought about how to say it too." He sighed against the side of her face. "I wish I'd said it earlier. God knows, I'd wanted to often enough."

"Damn it," she said, simultaneously laughing and crying. "This was supposed to be a much more romantic moment. I guess a kiss is out of the question."

Michael pulled back, leaning away far enough to see her face. Fingertips tenderly pushed her damp curls back from her face, blue eye never leaving brown eyes.

"I've done romance." He smiled wryly. "So have you. This is much better. This is the real thing."

And then -- surprisingly, foolishly, bravely -- he leaned down and kissed her anyway.

* * *

A/N: This chapter references episode 38: "Fortune Teller" the 4th episode in Season Three. 


End file.
